Nov 11, 2012

Last weekend, darlings, it was outdoorsy. I spent time
astride the gables, peaks and shingled ridge lines of our sprawling
bungalow, manfully, futilely blowing leaves, pine straw and cones out of eave
troughs and downspouts. There was pruning out some excess tree limbs and the
dismantling of a long since decommissioned satellite dish too.

This weekend it is indoorsy. The water closet in our en
suite has become truculent. Handle jiggling no longer drives the desired silent
outcome rapidly or reliably enough. The Throne has been in service at least 11
years, predating our purchase of Chateau Bellejambes and is therefore the only
seating in our home that the prior residents ever sat on. Time for change.

And beneath the kitchen sink too, a little low grade Plumbing
CSI is on tap for me. The In-Sink-Erato hit a couple of pitchy notes during
the supper tidy up on Election Night, and then, poof, expired in a sad acrid
puff of smoke which I will remember as only fractionally as offensive as the
cloud of profanity that will doubtless hover over my prone and pinched body as I wrangle
the new unit in later today.

There I will be, ratty jeans, scuffed steel shank boots, tools
scattered here and there and the right one not ever easily in reach, grimed up
with a couple of days of stubble on in a pretty compelling impression of a man
who owns and cares about the half acre of heaven that Mrs. Bellejambes and
myself call home.

This is not my natural setting. I am not a habitual do-it-yerselfer. But in point of fact, when I put my back into it, I am pretty handy.

I pass.

And then there is Petra.

Not much passing going on there of late.

Friends and people I admire are pressing boundaries here
there and everywhere. Janie wrestles with nails and males here. Meg figures out
how a girl furnishes her first apartment and splits the rent with a roomie
there. Famous Stana continues to evangelize and bravely share her fuller
self where her only her partial self was known and accepted before. Chrissie
gets to put a few bob in the bank in support of her next threshold of change.
Halle pokes, prods, and ponders causality and consequence in a way I have not had the energy for in eons. And Lynn, bless her stalwart generous heart, skis nimbly between the pylons of
family and fabulous with a perfectly English pluck that I marvel at.

I salute you all. What excitement there is at the frontiers.
I remember fondly so many of my own advances, the completely enlivening, crystalline
and suddenly normal, perfect, special places one occupies when pressing ahead,
having an appetite, and draining that loving cup of new dew.

I am, just now, in a nether world, a neutral place, not
moving and shaking much in the way of anything up, sipping now and then but not
gobbling big drafts of change with any regularity.

Petra has a very real presence in our home. A full bedroom
is dedicated to me. Drawers of knickers, bras, slips and such. Racks
of shoes and a tumble of bags. A largish armoire and full closet, neatly hung
frocks and tops and coats. A Smithsonian-worthy archive of hosiery. Wigs,
make-up, jewelry, the whole She-bang. Largely unused.

I do dress. I skip the commute and work from home a couple of days each week, and on those days when Mrs. Bellejambes is busy on the road with her
case load and client visits, I take the time to dress. Not head-to-toe, most
often toe-to-shoulder, minus the hair and maquillage. I take on my business
activities with the same gusto and macho aplomb as any other day, conference
calls, vendor wrangling and tweaking my ever evolving market maturity and
penetration models.

I just do all of that with my knees pressed a little closer
together by a fitted skirt. Sometimes the knees brush the underside of my desk as
a result of a few extra inches of heel beneath sheer clad ankles. My shoulders
are held back more, my elbows hew closer to my sides, the surface elements
changing all motion, more sway, more grace, more attention to, well everything.

The work, for what it is worth, gets done with as much good,
bad or indifferent effect as it does in any setting.

And then, mindful of Mrs. Bellejambes schedule, after a few
hours I will change surfaces, hang and fold things away and get back to what …
passes …. as …. well, normal.

It is all a little furtive, acknowledged but not spoken much
of. Petra is not a confrontational or indeed a needy, greedy presence. Mrs.
B has a whole and entirely creditable host of concerns, feelings of
unease, and generalized agita around the whole Petra issue. I get it. I
really do. I am, above all, a good
and loving husband and partner in our shared enterprise. Petra pads about on tip toe, no lightning strikes of stiletto heard here.

Organizing a “hall pass” for Petra remains therefore a
touchy thing. We discussed an outing in fact earlier this week. I had a Friday invite
for cocktails and a dinner with a dear friend. Much to catch up on, the sort of
easy chit-chat that a girl looks forward to. Mrs. B did not want to say, "...please
no...", and she did not need to. She hesitated. Her eyes said everything perfectly, and
beautifully even when sadness and worry dust her gorgeous, soft and warm face.

I did not get the pass. I took a pass. And I did not,
therefore, get out and try to pass.

I stowed my hope much in the same way that I stow my
wardrobe, after it flickers and dances for a while. All quiet orderly and free
of fuss. No drama. No confrontation. A nice, adult accommodation, the imperfect
balancing acts that we, all of us more or less grown-up types make a dozen
times a day.

It is all a little unsettling. I would say that I am in a
waiting room of sorts, except that I do not have a destination. I would enjoy
more access to the rest of me, and more opportunities to dart across the lines
of engagement in the gentle gender wars that we are all partisans in. Good
things happen out there. When I return from those too infrequent Voyages en Rose, I have had my
loving cup.

Honestly, I cannot see my appetites getting much more ravenous.
Pierce the ears? Nah. Paint the nails? Maybe for a night. Change any element of
my masculine inheritance in a permanent way? No such urges. What I shave or
pluck grows back. I will groom with a blade, but nothing, and I mean nothing,
is going under the knife.

Yeah, not a waiting room. A different place. Somewhere
between the sovereign lands of contentment and contention, embraced and
embargoed. No bucket list and nowhere near kicking the bucket. Don't quite know what to call it my dears. Must do a little something to moves things along though. Life is short and ought to be sweet, yes?

Update: Got all the handy stuff done, and more in fact, than initially planned. Pleasant as that outcome is, all the chores were done without a single outbreak of profanity. People who do not know me could be forgiven for believing that I have a persistent and ungovernable form of Tourette's. Seems to be better managed these days.

I am more likely, of late, to deploy profanity as a spice, a piquant grace note that complements the flavors of a story. In times gone by it fanned out indiscriminately behind me as though from a crop duster or, on a bad day, Agent Orange from a Fairchild C-123 leaving nothing but scorched earth and tears in my wake.

Certainly, the passing of years has a little something to do with the changes, the mellowing. Experience and all that good stuff, natch.

Chemistry too m'dears. T-levels drop for even the most chest-thumping primate with enough turns of the odometer.

But even without an ounce of empirical support, I have to give credit to the influence of Petra. Seems that my more masculine self smartens up and flies right in the presence of a lady.

Excitement at the frontiers indeed! Vive la différence! Isn't it amazing how much calmer the presence of a lady makes those once manly projects? Whether as an external and positive influence as you say, or as it feels to me, just the way I am now.

I must object however to your implication that my poking and pondering is anything but effortless. :)

About this part of me

Hello. I've been quiet about this for some time. How long? Since age 5. I remember distinctly an attractive friend of my mothers visiting. First pair of fishnets I clapped eyes on, and the world came into very, very sharp focus.

I wanted to have the beautiful woman in some inexpressible way, but I also wanted the things that made her womanly.

The Sears catalog would thud onto our front step. Fishing tackle and camping gear surely. But it was the 60 or so pages of confounding and compelling foundation garments that really got my attention on a rainy day.

Long line bras, open bottom girdles, and pant liners. Stockings, garter belts and pantyhose. Curves and crevices different from mine. And all of the revealing and concealing and vaguely hobbling dresses and shoes and hats that went on top of them all. Choice, complexity, mystery and forbidden fruit. A powerful brew that buzzes me still.

This desire has been with me forever now. It washes in and draws me out. I often swim against the tide. I sometimes let it pull. I don't believe that its going away though, and so its time for me to court it formally. And in giving it this space, perhaps understanding it better.

If you feel, in some way, these same things, I really hope this is helpful.

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Thanks for visiting. Petra keeps a file of findings, experiences, thoughts and hopes about all things crossdressing here.

This blog is open to and welcoming of the visits and interests of all crossdressers, the transgendered and transitioning, the curious and the spouse/partner, and by anybody who is just not judgmental.

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